


"Good Idea"

by DictionaryWrites



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Ballet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this post: Q has been training as a ballet dancer since he was seven and wanted to go to the London school of ballet but he got busted hacking into mi:6 for funsies and chose working for them instead of jail. bond catches him stretching one day and can’t stop thinking about his flexibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Good Idea"

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tumblr Post](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/70191) by lookslikeaquentinblakedrawing. 



Q is not in his office. That, in itself, is not entirely unusual: Q does leave the building occasionally, often to go somewhere pretentious where young people have lunch. Usually _sushi_ , or something equally ridiculous.

But he hasn't left the building – Bond knows this because to the side of the room, he can see there is still water in the kettle. Two cups' worth of hot water in the kettle, in fact, and Q doesn't leave water in the kettle when he's out to lunch or going hom. Something to do with limescale or unecessary water wastage or, most likely, both of those.

Two cups' worth of hot water in the kettle means that Q is still in the building – Bond's only question is _where_?

He frowns, and he walks down the hall, putting his head around the door into M's office. Mallory stares at him, demonstrating his utter displeasure at Bond's presence without saying a word.

“Seen Q?”

“He's downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Bond repeats. “In the _gym_? Those skinny arms have never seen a weight!” Mallory, apparently, makes the quick decision not to dignify that with a response.

“Why do you need him?” Bond shrugs. He doesn't _need_ Q – he _wants_ him. It's a whim. He likes the speccy lad.

All the same, he leaves M be and makes his way rapidly down the stairs, exchanging cursory nods with other agents as he passes. Moneypenny earns more than a glance; Bond smirks at her, offering a quick wink. In return, she hands him a dossier, winking right back.

But alas, it holds no nude photographs: all business. Such a shame.

He slips into the gym and sees, predictably, no quartermaster. M was just _pulling his leg_ , it seems.

“Teenager's in the other room.” 0011 says easily. She looks Bond up and down, and then makes a snorting noise before heading in the other direction. Fascinating woman, and disappointingly gay. Pesky monosexuality: eternally standing in the way of James Bond's conquests. Very unfortunate indeed.

All the same, with Ms Marinovsky's advice, he moves forwards, into the studio used for self defence, sparring, gymnastics and the like. Once upon a time, Bond thinks, the room might have been intended for ballet, but now-

“Jesus.” Bond whispers, staring as Q lifts his leg further above his head than any leg of his own has right to go, and then spins into a- whatever _that_ long-legged move is called. And then he just _spins_ across the room, leap after leap, and spins on his feet, and what is he _wearing_? Just shorts, a _terribly_ tight black t-shirt, and daps that are, on closer inspection, black ballet shoes.

His glasses are to the side, neatly laid atop his clothes, and he dances with no music at all. All the same, it's fluid, rapid, and he has far more _muscular_ legs than Bond had ever expected.

He finishes with a demi-plié (Bond at least knows the word for _that_ particular move), and he stands up straight with a slow breath before moving to his clothes, slipping out of the shoes and beginning to remove his shirt.

Has he even _noticed_ Bond? Has he noticed Bond and not _cared_?

“Are you going to watch me undress?” Q asks, and he sounds _bored_ of Bond, as he so often does. He has no idea why he enjoys that casually dismissive tone so terribly, but he really does.

“If you don't mind.” Q hums, seemingly amused, and changes without care. His back is more muscled than Bond had thought too: everything about Q's body is _defined_. “I didn't know you were a dancer.”

“One could fill a book with the things you don't know about me, Bond. In fact, M likely has. Why don't you go bother _him_ , and ask to borrow it?”

“Am I bothering you?” Bond asks, feigning honest concern as the other man slides on his glasses.

“Eternally.” is the dry response. Bond smiles at him, and Q smiles right back. His smile is cold, almost; it sends the most _delectable_ shivers up Bond's spine. He's never had a quartermaster so simultaneously commanding _and_ pretty. “I was going to go to the The Royal School of Ballet.”

“But...?”

“I hacked into MI6 for-” Q hums, a thoughtful noise. “One could call it “shits and giggles”, I suppose. I was offered a job placement or, alternatively, a prison sentence deep where no one would find me or, worse, hire me to do the job again.”

Bond thinks that is the most information Q has ever revealed about himself in his life.

“Oh.” Bond says, eloquently. “You're still good.”

“You wouldn't know.” Q says smoothly, tying his shoes and walking toward him. “But yes, I am. Immaterial, though. Please, get out of my way.” 007 _loves_ the meld of subtle commands and faux politeness: he steps to the side, and then he follows Q up the stairs, enjoying the sight of his ballet-sculpted arse as he goes.

He bothers Q for a little while, touches his counters, gets fingerprints on his screens, before he leaves the younger man be, but he can't stop _thinking_ about it.

Q. Flexible Q. Flexible Q with one leg high above his head.

Oh, the _things_ Bond could do with him in bed. Would Mallory's irritation be _worth_ it if he seduced this one?

Yes. Yes, _definitely_ , Bond thinks.

\---

In his office, M gets the distinct, nauseating feeling that Bond has had a new “good idea”, and rubs tiredly at his left temple.

Why in God's name did he ever take this job?


End file.
